


White Silence

by Perditus



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Alternate Universe- Permanent Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3030878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perditus/pseuds/Perditus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, quiet is violence.</p>
<p>Takatora stays dead and Mitsuzane doesn’t know how to deal with it. <i>This was not goodbye. This was repentance.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	White Silence

He could never quite shake his brother’s image. Following behind him like the specter he had accused him of being only weeks before. He wasn’t quite certain if he was following his shadow, or if it was the exact opposite and he was the one leading the way, which in and of itself was a terrifying thought.

Only now it was all over and he should have put everything to bed—buried in the dirt where he would eventually join them. Sooner, he was certain, rather than later. However, not too soon, because that would have been _too_ easy. There would be no peaceful rest for him, tortured by everything he’s done.

It was hard to, though. Move on. All around him was destruction he caused, even if he was aware that he had no right to pity himself. Neither did anyone have the right to have any pity _for_ him. (He wasn’t sure if he could deal with such a thing.)

_The body was recovered and identified, and he was the closest (only) kin left to contact. Phone lines were up but he didn’t know who was bothering to pay for any electricity for the manor—or perhaps the city was just offering it to the devastated citizens, knowing that they had lost so much already._

_Even without listening, he knew what the call would be at the first ring. He thanked whoever it was on the other side with a hoarse voice, and hung up, staring at the receiver for a long few moments afterwards, as if the answers were right in front of his face but he was just unable to grasp them._

So the easiest thing for him at this point was to lock himself away—isolated from everything he had ever known or grown to care about. There was no forgiveness to be found in the city, so there was hardly a purpose in him leaving his room.

Not to say he never did. He owed it to the others to watch them dance, to ensure they’d be okay. They deserved the ability to move on, to smile and mold their lives into something to be proud of. All of them certainly had the ability—whether their talent lied in their dancing, or their kindness, or their strength. He wasn’t sure when he lost that. Yes. They would move on.

“Unlike you, who must always bear the weight of your sins.” He didn’t hear his brother appear, but there was, in the corner of his eye, a dark shape slowly coming into focus, each detail as crystal clear as a photograph.

His fist tightened around the railing.

_The room was too still, and besides the blanket of dust covering everything, it had been virtually untouched by the invasion. A miracle, maybe._

_He swallowed and tried to ignore it, crossing over to the closet to choose the outfit his brother would be buried in. This was his responsibility, and his fingers brushed over one of the suit jackets, the material feeling far too foreign under the pads of his fingertips._

_“Nii-san,” He whispered, the familiar burn of tears rising in his eyes, something to ground him back to the reality he built around himself. “What am I supposed to do?”_

After a moment of silence, he thought he saw something akin to worry flicker over Takatora’s face. He had become less cruel recently; softer, perhaps due to the immense guilt crushing the younger and threatening to suffocate him.

“I know.” He spoke gently. “It’s my fault.” Slowly he pushed away from the railing, placing his hands in his pockets and turning on his heel, away from the music and small crowd that had gathered in front of the stage.

In the distance there was a scream that seemed to be gathering volume—somehow a sound he knew instinctively, like the intonations signaled something from long ago. Without thinking about it he began to run towards the source of it, throwing his arms up in a desperate attempt to block his face against the sudden…locust swarm? “What?!”

_The funeral was a rather lonely affair. He was certain that the Beat Riders would have come if he had asked, and yet he did not invite them. He did not want them here. Perhaps it was to hide his mistake, or to spare them from the cruel sight that lay in front of his own eyes._

_He knows the image will haunt him for the rest of his life. The gaunt face, pale lips and skin, the casket. (He had to—he had to see him at least once, before the body was finally taken care of.)_

_This wasn’t goodbye. This was repentance._

He knew he didn’t stand a chance without his driver, and it wasn’t until he was on the ground gasping for breath, both of the monsters gone that he realized what this meant. _I can make something right,_ he thought desperately.

“You think you can fix all that you’ve done wrong?” Takatora’s tone was biting, sharp, contradicting what his little brother dared to believe. He was not saying it to dig his heel into the bruises already left by the locust Inves. Wordlessly, the younger pushed his palms against the ground and stood on his feet, exhaling.

There was a certain steel in his gaze that was not present beforehand. “I know I can’t.” For once, he didn’t sound meek. “But I can begin to try.” It was better than locking himself away, perhaps, but he came to the realization a long time ago that the bird cage around him was not to trap him, but to protect everyone else.

_His own room is a shattered mess of glass and clothing haphazardly thrown about it. There is only one lamp to emit light, but more often than not he finds it easier to stay in the dark. Time escapes his hands easily, like sand slipping between his fingers._

_He is tired of appearing broken, and wandering the halls of the manor like a ghost does nothing but encourage the spread of stories. One day he will be able to stand on his own two feet and look someone in the eye._

_Today, however, he will find himself yelling at another figment of his imagination. Nobody stood in his way more than himself._

Takatora gives him space after that—which is laughable. His brother never _gave_ him anything, and yet he finds it easier to breathe. This is something he has to do on his own, and his lockseed is strangely light in his hand.

He was not a hero, he knew that. Nor could he pretend to be one—he should have never pretended to be one, but it is time to stop hiding behind a mask, and to be _brave_ for once in his life. It is time to step into the light.

They had to be the heroes in Kouta’s stead, and Ryugen is an old skin that he no longer feels he fits into. It is too taut in some places, and strangely empty in others, but he does not let that stop him, he _will_ not let that stop him.

_He does not tell anyone about he kept every piece of memorabilia of Gaim that he could get his hands on. His own hoodie is hidden somewhere, and it feels too false to look at. So he does not, and he pretends it does not exist._

_He does, however, visit the tree of the shrine, taken aback by its beauty. There is almost a smile on his lips as he kneels in front of it to leave his offering, beads that were woven together in reds and blues and blacks and whites, probably meant to symbolize something that has been lost here._

_There is a green and white one that is burning a hole in his pocket. His walk by the docks is a much slower one, and he feels the smooth texture in his palm for a moment before he tosses it into the sea without a second glance._

His breathing is heavy, adrenaline from the battle still mingling in his bloodstream, and yet he is elated. If Kouta is fine, then Mai is fine as well, even if he knows that they will never return to Zawame.

Strangely, the thought is comforting to him. The last glow of the evening cast a warm light over his skin, and the sun looks impossibly red. He is unsure of what it means, or if it even means anything. Now is not the time to reflect upon such a thing.

It is time for him to go home. There was a silence behind him, though, a silence that he had not been able to achieve for months. It is almost frightening, but he needs to be able to find the source of it before it vanishes forever.

He turned around fast enough to see his brother smile and begin to walk towards him—each step seeming to erase him from existence, fading more and more until he became transparent, like a closing curtain on their stage, or perhaps a figure vanishing deep into the water with only the gentle waves lulling the body to a final resting place, slower and slower until the water stilled and there was nothing left.


End file.
